by Fox, Susan
His jaw tensed and he didn’t answer for a long moment. “Shit. No, I won’t. Fuck, Isadora.”
I wasn’t following this train of thought any more than I’d followed the one that led him to confess to murdering his father. Tonight, Gabriel was an enigma.
To our left was the lot where he’d parked. Most of the other cars were gone. But Gabriel didn’t turn toward his car, he kept walking the beach, and so I paced beside him. The fading sky, accented now by a nearly full moon and the first evening stars, provided enough light that we could see our way among the logs, rocks, and washed-up kelp. The sand was cool underfoot.
Gabriel stepped ahead of me then stopped abruptly, catching my shoulders in his hands and bringing me to a stop, too. I stumbled, then righted myself. His fingers bit into me and the sandals he held in one hand clunked against my back. My heart raced with sudden awareness of him.
“Why did you break up with Richard?” he demanded roughly.
Again he’d surprised me, and I struggled to adjust. This was private between Richard and me, and yet I felt compelled to answer. But how to explain? “I guess I realized … I mean…” I foundered. “Richard’s wonderful but I think we make better friends than…” I shrugged, my shoulders moving against his hands, not wanting to say lovers or spouses.
“Why now?”
“Uh, well … I realized I didn’t feel … I mean, I didn’t want…”
I was still stumbling for words when he reached out and touched my lips with one finger, hushing me. His touch made me tremble.
“Isadora, from the first moment I saw you, I wanted you.” His words were measured and sure, which made them even more powerful.
I sucked in a breath. It was true. Everything I’d suspected—maybe hoped for, despite knowing I shouldn’t—was true. But how could he now, this easily, acknowledge it? Excitement danced across my skin and tingled through my veins. He’d said it. Gabriel DeLuca desired me.
I wanted to sing and dance and … cry.
“No response?” he asked softly, his hands on my shoulders holding me a willing prisoner.
“Too many,” I confessed. But he’d been honest and I had to be, too. It was the only way we could work out what to do. So I sucked in another deep breath and said, “I fought it, but it’s been the same for me.”
His face lit with smug male satisfaction. “I thought so. But I can’t read you the way I can other women.”
So I was just another woman to him. A hot surge of anger flooded through me and I stepped back, freeing myself from his grip. “I can guess how other women react to you. They probably throw themselves all over you. But I was engaged to someone else, and I don’t subscribe to my parents’ belief in open relationships. I’m sure you think there’s nothing wrong with sleeping around, but I take vows seriously.”
He shook his head abruptly. “Sorry, that came out wrong. Believe me, Isadora, I don’t group you with other women. If I did, I’d have been able to forget about you, replace you with someone else.”
Testing, I said, “I guess it was hard to forget about me when we kept constantly showing up in the same place.”
“Even before that. Remember when you phoned to ask if I’d represent Jimmy Lee? I was sitting at my desk daydreaming about you, knowing I shouldn’t. Then, for a moment, I thought you’d called because you were doing the same thing.”
“I had been. I couldn’t get you out of my mind.”
We stood about two feet apart, staring at each other in the moonlight.
“That’s why you broke up with Richard.”
I frowned. “Yes and no. Not because I thought you and I would… I mean, it’s not like we could… But it did make me realize there was something missing in Richard’s and my relationship.”
“Why couldn’t we? You and I?”
Sleep together, I was sure he meant. Men. How could they think things were so simple?
“Richard, for one reason,” I said coolly.
Certain that he’d protest that Richard and I had broken up, I was surprised when he nodded, his expression grim and almost sad. “Yeah. That’s what held me back all along, and it’s still a problem, isn’t it? I’d been trying to convince himself that if the test proved I wasn’t his father, I wouldn’t feel…”
When he didn’t finish the thought, I said, “In your heart he’ll always be your son, and you don’t want to hurt him. You and I, uh, having a relationship, would hurt him.”
We stared glumly at each other for a few minutes, then I asked, “Why did you tell me about your father?”
He gave a rueful laugh. “My last chance to drive you away? Then we wouldn’t have had to talk about this.”
I smiled a little. “Did you think it would work?”
He shook his head. “No. You’re an empathetic woman. Guess what I really wanted was for you to know, and tell me you understood.”
“I do.”
“I know. Just like I know we have to have this talk. There’s something between us. No matter how I try to deny it—or reason myself out of it—it only gets stronger.”
I nodded vigorously. “I know. And it doesn’t make sense. You’re not into serious relationships, right?”
He shook his head again. “Been there, done that, and did it badly.”
“And I want marriage and kids, fidelity, the house and mortgage, all those things you reject. Plus, I want someone to grow old with, not someone—”
“Who’s already old?” he asked dryly.
“No! I definitely don’t think of you as old. But the fact is, there’s eighteen years between us. I don’t want to be left alone in my old age, and—” I broke off and gave a rueful laugh. “See there? I had us married. I can’t help it, that’s how I think about relationships. If there’s no future potential, I’m wasting my time.”
I stared at him, lean and dangerous, vital and sexy. Hard to imagine that having sex with Gabriel would be a waste of time. Hurriedly, I added, “But of course, all of that stuff’s irrelevant because there’s Richard.”
“So how are we going to deal with this?” he said, gently touching my shoulder and turning me back toward the parking lot. Side by side, we began to walk, but this time he reached for my hand and gripped it, and I welcomed his touch. It wasn’t a sexual contact, but an acknowledgment we shared a problem and together would work it out.
It dawned on me that, despite our age difference, he treated me as an equal. He didn’t try to tell me what to do, and he genuinely valued my opinion. The feeling was heady, and yet… “I guess we should avoid each other,” I said reluctantly.
“But I don’t want to avoid you. You’re good for me. You challenge me.”
I felt even more flattered. “You challenge me too. Maybe we could try being friends?” Could I force myself to think of him that way?
“Isn’t that what we’ve been doing? Hasn’t worked too damn well.”
“No, but… Maybe it’ll work better now everything’s out in the open.”
“Maybe.” He didn’t sound any more convinced than I was.
We headed up the beach toward the paved walkway. He released my hand, dropped our sandals on the ground, then bent to put his on. When I leaned down to do the same, he said, “Let me,” and knelt at my feet.
Resting a hand on his shoulder, I lifted one foot. He’d jammed his own sandals on over the granules of sand that clung to his feet, but he didn’t do that with me. Instead, he gently brushed the sand away. “Cold,” he commented gruffly, then cradled my foot in his hands, warming it, before he eased it into a sandal.
Such a sweet, perfect gesture. He’d never be a conventional man, not the kind who brought roses and chocolates on Valentine’s Day, but he did things like this. Things like giving me the absolutely perfect earrings just because they made him think of me. Things that were more meaningful, more romantic, than the stereotypical ones.
Slowly, caressingly, he cleaned off my other foot and warmed it, his every touch sending pulses of pleasure up my leg.
Then, rather than sliding that foot into a sandal, he rose in a surge of motion. “Damn it, Isadora.”
Those hands that had been so gentle with my feet thrust into my hair, gripping my head, tilting it back. He was going to kiss me.
I could stop him.
No, I couldn’t. Not when everything in me wanted him so badly.
His lips came down on mine.
They weren’t gentle. They weren’t polite.
His tongue claimed my mouth. All my senses came alive and I was dizzy with sensual overload. I gave one needy little gasp, sucking him in even deeper, and kissed him back.
We pillaged each other’s mouths like starving animals after days of deprivation, greedy now that we could finally indulge. Hungry for more, then even more.
His hands were still in my hair, as if to prevent an escape I had no thought of attempting. He pulled me against him, and finally I could feel what my body had been longing for, the firm press of his erection against my belly. I cursed the thick denim of his jeans, wrapped my arms around his waist, pulled him even closer.
I had to touch his skin, so I yanked his shirt free from his jeans and ran my hands up his back, charting unknown territory and claiming it for my own. My behavior stunned me. I didn’t recognize this woman who was so bold, so needy.
Isadora, with Gabriel.
His flesh burned under my palms and I’d never felt anything so blazingly alive. Velvety skin, firm muscles, jutting bones, his body was as vital, as captivating, as his mind. I wanted all of him. Now.
His chest heaved against mine and I realized my nipples were painfully hard against my bra, craving the touch of his fingers, his tongue. But their ache was nothing compared to the one between my thighs, where the pressure built, the need centered.
Suddenly he forced my head back, tore his mouth from mine, gasped for air.
“Gabriel,” I moaned, wanting him back.
Before I’d finished saying his name, his lips descended, swallowing the last syllable.
Somehow, in all the vague fantasies I’d had of Gabriel, I’d imagined him as a suave lover, but this embrace had nothing of finesse in it, it was all about raw, primitive need. Our lips smashed against each other, our teeth jarred, our tongues dueled for dominion.
And then he hooked his arms under my butt and hoisted me. Automatically, my legs locked around his hips and my arms circled his shoulders as we both jockeyed for position until that hard ridge of male flesh beneath his fly pressed against me exactly where I wanted it. I squirmed as his hips worked, thrusting against me, and I’d never felt so aroused in my life.
If he’d been inside me, I’d have come in a split second.
Never, with Richard, had I—
Richard.
Heat had built in my body until every inch of flesh was aroused and burning. At the thought of Richard, the heat drained in a rush, leaving me weak and shaky, cold and shivering. I tore my mouth from Gabriel’s and cried, “No!”
Either he didn’t hear me, or he ignored my cry. His mouth sought mine again, but I pulled away from him, twisting my head to avoid his kiss, saying, “Stop, Gabriel. Stop.”
My message must have sunk in because he froze and stared at me. “What?” His voice was hoarse.
“Richard,” I gasped.
His hands loosened their grip on my buttocks and I began to slide. He caught me again, but only to steady me when my feet hit the ground. “Fuck! Damn it, when I’m with you I stop thinking.”
His hands gripped my elbows, taking most of my weight, holding me up but away from him. Huge shivers wracked my body at the thought of what we’d almost done.
Gabriel turned me toward the car and his arm came around me, warming me and urging me forward at the same time. I stumbled along beside him, fearing my legs would collapse under me at any moment. I clung to his arm while he unlocked the passenger door and helped me inside.
The unpredictable roof light came on this time, and even its dim glow seemed too bright. My eyes ached and I wanted to cry.
I struggled into my cardigan, frowning when Gabriel walked away from the car. What now? But then I saw him retrieve my sandal. I hadn’t even noticed that one of my feet was still bare.
He returned and tossed the shoe on the floor of the car, not touching me, and went around to the driver’s side as I slid my foot into the sandal and hugged my sweater around my chilled body.
He flung himself into the seat and sent me a dark, burning look. “I should say I’m sorry, but I’m not.”
“I…” I thought about it for a moment, then admitted, “I’m not sorry either. But it can’t happen again.”
He shook his head. “I intended one quick kiss. I didn’t know it’d be so hard to stop.”
He jammed his key in the ignition, slammed his door, and the roof light went off. We were parked under a lamppost though, and I could still see his face, his expression of intense frustration. “I hate this,” he said. “Hate situations I can’t control.”
“We can control it. We have to. Especially now we know…”
“How easy it would be to fall into bed together?” he said huskily, seductively. “How good it would be when we got there?”
“Yes! Damn you.” Just the thought warmed me, enough that I almost took my cardigan off again.
“Well, damn you, too, Isadora Dean Wheeler.” But his tone held rueful humor.
“What do we do now?”
“I drive you home. You don’t ask me in and I don’t kiss you goodnight, and we don’t tumble into your bed—” He broke off. “Where do you sleep, anyhow?”
“The couch is a pullout.”
He shook his head. “Shouldn’t have asked. Now I’ll have another image invading my brain when I’m not sleeping tonight.”
Involuntarily I glanced down to the front of his jeans, saw he still had an erection, felt my corresponding female parts heat and swell with desire.
When I looked up again, he nodded. “Yeah, Isadora. That’s what you do to me.”
I had to clench my fists to keep from touching him. “You’d better take me home.” The words came out choked.
He started the car and obliged, driving far too fast. Neither of us said a word on the way. When he double-parked in front of my building, he didn’t turn the engine off.
“What are we going to do?” I asked softly. “How can we deal with this?”
“I don’t have a fucking clue.”
He was the problem-solver. He was supposed to have answers. He’d had so many relationships, how could he not know how to handle this?
He shook his head. “Go inside, Isadora.”
I did, and managed it without a backward glance.
Needless to say, I didn’t sleep. I tossed, and imagined Gabriel tossing as he imagined me…
I’d have phoned Grace, but I knew the advice she’d give. Have sex with Gabriel and see where it took us. If I said I didn’t want to hurt Richard, she’d protest that jealousy was a selfish, immature emotion. She was right—but the fact was, most of us mortals were selfish and immature.
Janice. I could tell this whole mess to Janice. Not that she was an expert on relationships, but she knew me so well, and loved me. Maybe she’d come up with a fresh insight that had escaped me. Failing that, at least she could be counted on to sympathize.
Around three in the morning I almost phoned her, but I resisted the temptation. I couldn’t be that selfish. I would, however, call first thing in the morning and ask if we could switch our planned lunch for dinner at my place. No way could I discuss my problems over a quick lunch in a crowded deli.
Finally, around five, fed up with all the tossing and agonizing, I rose and took Pogo for a walk. He started out as usual, bouncing with energy, but when I flopped down on an oceanside bench only a few blocks from home, he picked up on my mood and chose to sit docilely at my feet rather than tug at his leash and demand that I let him explore the beach.
I stared at him gloomily, my brain too tired to even thi
nk, until suddenly he leaped up, yipping happily. He pulled the leash from my slack grip and scampered away.
“Pogo!” Then I realized he was greeting a jogger. Althea Fitzsimmons.
She bent to pat him and pick up the dangling leash. “So, Pogo, another early bird.” A glance at me as she handed the leash over. “Morning, Dr. Wheeler.”
“Morning.”
Another glance, with narrowed eyes.
I realized that, in addition to my thoroughly tousled hair, she was seeing swollen, bloodshot eyes ringed in purple shadows and, quite likely, lips still swollen from last night’s passionate kisses.
Quickly, I said, “I was right, green’s your color. You look great.” This morning she wore a tank top the color of ripe avocado. Her cheeks were rosy, her green eyes sparkling, her hair wind-tousled—tousled attractively, unlike mine which was merely sleep-ratted.
Her mouth worked for a moment. “Well, you look dreadful,” she said abruptly. “And it’s not allergies, as you said last time. It’s not any of my business, but is there anything I can help with?”
I shook my head. “Thanks anyhow, Ms. Fitzsimmons.”
“Name’s Althea. And you’re Isadora, aren’t you?”
“Yes, though most people call me Iz or Izzie.”
She scowled. “Lovely name, Isadora. Shouldn’t be messed with.”
Gabriel never messed with it. And when he said it, it did sound lovely.
I must have looked truly pitiful because she sank down on the bench beside me. “What’s wrong?”
If I told her the whole story, she’d faint from shock. Instead, I said, “My fiancé and I broke up.”
“Oh, my. That nice young man you were with at dinner?”
When I nodded, she said, “How sad. I’m sure you’re heartbroken.”
Heartbroken. “Um…” I wasn’t, at least not at the moment. My quandary over Gabriel had distracted me from agonizing over losing Richard. We’d broken up less than two days ago, and already I was obsessing over another man.
I squeezed my eyes shut, thoroughly miserable, then opened them again and gazed at her. “I was,” I said softly. “But the break-up was my doing, and I know it’s for the best. Right now I’m more concerned about … something else. About doing something that might hurt him even more.” Boy, I must be desperate to talk if I was confiding in Althea Fitzsimmons.